Dooms Day
by patchworkangel
Summary: Nothing in his life had turned out the way he thought it would. And if he sat quietly enough, for even one second, he'd see - admit - that he was lonely. But it was better than guilt. And her, her presence, brings those demons out, burying the other...
1. Chapter 1

О╩©

Disclaimer: Heroes is propert of NBC and Tim Kring. No copyright infringement intended. Dooms Day is property of Gackt, who I would own if I could, but I can't so I don't. I'm poor; you harass me, you get squat. So go harass someone else.

AU Future Fic, centric on Sylar (or as I tend to refer to him, Sylar Gray). Inspired by the song and lyrics of Doomsday by Gackt, the story is set in a futuristic AU, New York; seventeen years after the present series, and features the pairing between Sylar and another, surprise, Heroes character. Like the song, I intend for the story to be very angsty, and full of retrograde, retrospect, instrospect, thoughts and views concerning both characters, and most probably (no promises) it may involve suicide and/or blood-letting. Still, tell me what you think if you have any ideas. This is one that'll probably take me too long to update, so any inspiration may be welcome.

**Dooms Day**

* * *

He stumbled into the alley, the wound in his side eating away at his consciousness. Rats went scurrying at the sound of his feet, avoiding the sudden intruder with swift, tiny legs. He sneered, stomping loudly just to stir them up a tad bit more. And like a bad one-night stand, obsessive and scorned, the wound flared up and burned his entire right side.

Fuck, he thought. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The bartender deserved it, he argued in his head. All he wanted was another whiskey. Instead the idiot went screaming 'El Diablo!!' over and over again, while nearby patrol officers - who were bored out of their minds at the lack of action these days - were painstakingly chomping down on day-old doughnut looking crap (seriously, the stuff tasted like dried toilet paper), while downing fuckin' charcoal water the diner was claiming to be coffee. He was paying goodwill dues at first, polite and charming to the man all the way, but after that damned newsflash came on about the Goverment's latest foray into advance genetic research, and how they were getting closer to zero timeline trackers, he just lost it.

Who did those fucking, monkey-suited bastards, think they were? What the hell gives them the right to decide, that the evolutionary imperative of progression, expansion, and invasion over the lesser - the weaker species - of the natural human hierarchy, as nothing more than unimportant paperwork to write-off? What gives them the right to label THEM, those people whose genetic advancements surpassed homo-sapien, as FREAKSHOWS?

It struck a chord in his well played orchestra of lies, and without thinking, he had demanded another whiskey, although he had had seven, and - he was actually planning to leave anyway - the bartender told him to call it a night and go to bed. Rattled over what was surely rude service, he had grabbed the bartender's wrist, demanded his whiskey, after which the bartender's eyes widened and he started screaming "El Diablo!!". The two, crack-eyed officers heard the scream, and quickly apprehended him, locking both arms behind him, and pinning him to the dirty floor. He didn't really remember much - the whiskey was good whiskey - but both the officers just went flying off of him, and into the walls, and his wrists slipped out of the half locked cuffs. He stood up, giddy, and looked around.

The diners were hiding under their tables, whining like the inferior bastards they were, scared to look at him.

What, he wanted to scream. Never seen a priest drink whiskey before?

He was about to go back to asking for his well-deserved whiskey, when he felt a sharp pain rip through his side. He shouted at the top of his lungs, rage overcoming him and driving a nail into the back of his skull; he spun around ready to kill off this fuck-brained attacker.

Instead, he came face to face with a pint-sized boy, trembling on the floor, hands still clenched as if holding a knife. He looked down, and saw the handle of a bread-knife sticking out of his waist. He stared at the boy, at his school-boy haircut and bookworm rimmed glasses, at a loss because it had been years since he'd killed a child. He tried remembering, until he saw it, in the cheap eyewear the kid had hanging over his nose.

He saw the dirty, unshaven, unkempt, monster of a man. His stubbled jaw, his alcohol-burned eyes, his unstable stance, and the blood seeping through an old EndeverafteR T-shirt. He sneered immediately; now he understood why. He pulled out the knife with a hiss, and flung it as hard as he could at the bar line.

Grabbing his coat he had left, furious that his self control was compromised to the point he unconsciously dropped his illusion, and showed the entire diner that he was nothing more than another freak.

He kept his pace, avoiding the passerbys and ignorant fools. He kept his head low, trying to stop his hearing from picking up the static. He kept going; he didn't even realise he was running until he stumbled into that trashcan, and this atypical alleyway. The fucking rodents ran away from him. What? Did they dare judge him too, now? He stomped, and promptly managed to squish one with his foot. He smiled, but stopped short when the pain burned through him.

Lost for words, he slumped down in a heap, and stared into the night.

Fuck, he thought. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

* * *

She was almost running down the alleyway, wanting nothing more than to go home. Her job kept her well past lockdown, as usual, but the green card she kept in her pockets at all times proved useful in getting her through the officers working practically every turn of the city. Unfortunately, the green card was pretty much useless against the run-of-the-mill mugger or perverted stalker, so she made haste to cover the distance between the restaurant and her meager apartment.

She was already halfway down the alley when her step faltered on a rotting object. She lost balance for a moment, stumbling forward only to have the largest rat make his commune between the two rundown buildings. She shrieked, backing up immediately but only to shriek again when she nearly tripped over something else. She spun around, grabbing her bag tightly and closing her coat firmly out of some self-preservation mode she had relating to her feminine rights. She took a few steps forward, peering behind the trash cans to verify what exactly blocked her earlier on. She saw a shoe - no, wait, a foot? - that prompted her to step closer and see what was the owner of the foot.

And believe me, with the way New York was living nowadays, the question was always a 'What' rather than a 'Who.

She followed the awkward foot, up towards a leg, and eventually catching sight of the full-bodied, very dirty, and very drunk, man lying slumped against the wall. She took a deep breath, half-worried he was dead (she needed to use this same alley tomorrow morning... She was pretty sure she wasn't keen on having some junkie stink up the experience) but grabbed her chest stunned, when he quite obviously, snored. She looked down at him again, curious now. She could hear her father's voice telling her about talking to strangers, but she pushed it away. She inched closer, and had the story of ancient demons that snatch girls off the street whenever it was hungry, run through her head. She pulled back a bit, skimming through the list of 'People Who Will Miss Me When I'm Gone' in her head. She bit her lip, and decided at the moment, that there really wasn't anyone to worry about.

With that, she gathered her nerves, and bent down to feel for a pulse.

Ookay! There was one! He's alive.

She sighed in relief. Satisfied, she decided to stop this stupidity and get some well-earned sleep. She stood up, patting away the dirt and tentatively made her way out, when she heard a different kind of snore. She frowned; she'd heard that before. Once. Actually, too many times. She turned back towards the man, and saw the bloody spot on his shirt. She gasped softly, unsure of what to do. Or what anyone would think.

A girl! In the middle of the night! Standing over a bleeding man!

Oh, she knew what they'd say. That policeman's daughter! Has she learned nothing?

Well, she's learned a lot the last seventeen years. And her greatest feat remains the ability to keep her unyielding view of goodness in anyone, whether they're one of the tagged-victims, or someone like her eternally bawling co-worker, Samantha, who for the hundredth time admits she's done the unforgivable sin by sleeping with her professor. She was a good soul. That was that, really.

There was that 'snore' again. She looked down and bit her lip.

Five years ago, things got pretty bad around the city. She would if she could, but she couldn't, so she had no choice but to learn a few things during that fallout. One of them being nursing and first aid. Although those times were usually accompanied by Nicole, the ultimately cool and resourceful god-aunt she hadn't seen since the fallout, she was sure whatever the problem was, she could fix it.

Right?

She bent down and curled her arm around a weakened bicep.

Truth was, she had lost patients before, and blood still scared her. But if there was one thing her father taught her, it was that helping was always the right thing to do. So sturdying herself, she carefully hoisted up the man, and struggled through the alleyway, heading for her apartment.

The man stirred, barely dragging his feet on his own.

She managed to muse; if that was all he could do, that would be enough.

* * *

They stumbled into the modest apartment with less grace than a couple of drunk mules. She had her bag in her mouth, her keys between her fingers and her pockets, her left shoe almost falling off her foot, and her right arm numb as a nail. The man groaned every few minutes, and she half expected him to already be dead when she unceremoniously dumped him on to the couch.

He landed in an awkward position, folded over and under in ways that was so not appropriate, so she sighed and crouched down to help manouvere his limbs into place. Her hand brushed against the wound in his side, the man flinching ever so slightly. For the millionth time that night, she reminded herself that this was stupid; following that train of thought closely with another echo that persisted that what she was doing was good work. Besides, leaving the man outside in the dumps would probably increase chances of him stinking up the place tomorrow morning. The way she saw it, at least the most rational way, she was doing herself a huge favour.

"Bastards..."

She almost lept out of her shoes at the groan. Clutching her chest and her coat over her body again (she really needed to quit doing that), she backed away a few steps. The man stirred.

'Well... See. You were dying in an alley, so I decided to rescue you... Nope, no trouble. I always bring unknown, dirty, smelly, dying men home after my shift!! Nothing to worry about!'

Slow down, honey.

She inched closer, trembling a little as she hovered over the increasingly delirious patient. She noted his hard, though smooth features. His strong, well-defined chin, overgrown with stubble, and yet still the frame for finely curved, and weathered lips. His nose was proud, and his cheekbones, pedestals for his closed-eyes and their crown of brows, flared gently along his face, although rather gaunt because he looked almost skeletal. His hair was dirty, although it looked recently cut, and a pale chain hung around his neck, glimmering softly under the light of her fluorescent room. Suddenly curious, she bent forward and gently touched the chain.

"You DARE!!" he shot up, eyes snapping open and teeth gnarling at her. He grabbed her wrist, yanking her down and growling in an inhuman voice.

"You DARE!? You bastards!! I will kill you all! And your powers! ALL YOUR POWERS!! I WILL TAKE THEM ALL!!"

She gasped, the vision in her mind's eye landing on her chest, knocking the air out of her. She saw it. She saw him. It couldn't be... It couldn't! She gasped for air; this only happened when her instinct, her ability to locate led her to find the person she thought of, as being right in front of her, staring at her dead in the eye.

And he was. Alive and breathing. It couldn't be!! He was dead!

She wrenched her arm free and fell backwards, scurrying until she felt the television stand behind her. She came to a stop and breathed heavily, hands immediately reaching up to her head and feeling around for anything that could have happened. She felt her body grow cold and numb, the chills enveloping her almost smotheringly, blurring her vision and enclosing her world in shadows.

He simply swayed for a moment, before falling back onto the couch, once more unconscious. She could only stare, arms wrapping frantically around herself, tugging the coat and her own skin, tears creeping out of her eyes. She kept on sliding her feet on the wooden floor, pushing away the carpet from under her, and cried softly under her breath. She closed her eyes, the tears beginning to fall, and kept hugging her body, her nails digging deeper into her skin.

A bear. A teddy bear. She remembered hugging a teddy bear.

'Don't hurt me... Please..'

In her mind's eye, as clear as yesterday, she remembered the sight of the dark, police uniform - breaking down the doors, and telling her it was alright.

"Daddy..." she cried under her breath, faint blood staining her sleeves, where she began to bleed underneath.


	2. Chapter 2 : Deserves Hope

О╩© Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes, or Doomsday by Gackt. I just wrote this story because I was bored and on way too much caffeine. The boredom? That I do own.

A/N: The second chapter of Dooms Day, and I'm still not quite happy with it. I dunno, I just feel like its diverting away from the song I based it on. Still, I hope you all like it. And to the readers who figured it out that it was Molly Walker I was dropping hints on in the last chapter, good for you!! For those on the other hand who find it kinda weird, or what not, allow me to recommend listening to the song and picking up on the one line in it that just fits perfectly with Molly's ability and her fear of dreams. It would probably make this story go down easier.

A/N 2: Also, if there are people out there who are finding trouble imagining Molly grown up, I actually tend to imagine grown-up Molly as looking almost exactly like Caitlin McKenna (Katie Carr) from Heroes. The blue eyes, the red hair, the teeth; it actually does work. Or you could imagine any other brunette-ish redhead.

Onwards!!

**Dooms Day**

**

* * *

**

**Chapter 2**

She woke up feeling like she had finally woken up from a lifetime of dreaming. And yet, it was far from liberating as people often described it as being, because she had awoken up from a life that was a dream, and realised instead that she was living in a nightmare the whole time, and one that never quite ended. The world looked different, the lights and shadows looked reversed, and if she tried to lift her head, it was as if she was already hanging by a noose, because her neck and her body felt separated; she was floating outside her body in a murky universe, and even then her body wasn't a better place where she wanted to be.

She was never cruel. She was always kind. Some things change you. Some things save you, lead you. Guide you. Some things make you better and make everything else okay.

And, some things scar you for life.

She never thought about it. No, it was the most ancient of her ancient histories. Her first scar. The first time she ever found and encountered, that one thing called 'Evil'. It was also that one scar that led her to the greatest adventure of her life, and some of the greatest people she had ever known. That one scar shaped her entire life.

Her father. Her dad. Her family. Her friends. Her aunt and uncles. Her best friend. Her first love. Everyone. Even the ones she never met.

But time took its place and ran its road. Within time, seventeen years to be exact, she had ended up alone. Everyone. Even Claire, her best friend growing up, who never grew older than twenty-one, who kept a teddy bear at the bottom of a duffel bag wherever she went; she grew up and married West Bishop - disappearing soon after, because West's father was a harder man than they expected.

She only left a duffel bag of wedding veils, hair dye and a handy-cam. She took the bear. She didn't tell her where they went.

Her dads. Her aunts. Her uncles.

Micah. Sweet and caring, he was the most understanding boy she ever knew. He always said the right words, and she always found it effortless to say the right words back when she was with him. But two years gone, they went separate ways. He tried. She tried. In the end, they were only friends. But even then she couldn't have him anymore, because as fate would have it, he moved out to LA, and the last time she saw him was five years ago. And even then, it was only because he was on the news about another advancement in technology or what else.

Twenty eight. Twenty eight years old, and she was alone.

She looked over at the man still unconscious on her couch. Inside she felt... something. What? She didn't know. She wasn't sure. Was she still angry? Anger... Perhaps. Afraid?

Yes. She was afraid. But... not the way she was afraid all those years ago. Scared. Scared of him, and yet not of him. Of something... about him. She was terrified.

And... hurt. So hurt. Like a knife was twisting in her gut. Hurt at something - not him, for some reason she was sure she was not hurt from him - she was aching inside. Like her entire body was being held above a flame and her skin, her flesh, was dripping off, agonizingly slow, agonizingly obvious. That hurt was eating at her from the back of her mind, and she wanted to claw under her scalp, remove that pain, and fling it away until it was gone or until she herself was too lost in the dark to see or know about that pain anymore. It just hurt.

She sniffled and buried her head in her hands. This couldn't be happening. This just couldn't be happening. All those years... All this time... She just... she wanted - to forget... Just forget. How easy it was; just a few hours ago she was living in a restricted bliss - restricted, yet bliss all the same - no longer acknowledging memories she buried so frantically long ago, no longer acknowledging a way of life she was so accustomed to once upon a time; and now... With that one view, into that one mind; and now all the world was falling apart. What happened to her?

The loud bangs on her door startled her out of her thoughts, jolting her into animation. She leaned further into the stand, frowning at the sound and for a moment, at a loss at who the knocker could be. The person knocked again, louder this time, prompting her to blink and wriggle her fingers, a moment of irony poking fun at her.

Say, there's a person at the door. Shouldn't you answer it?

After the third set of bangs, and a very aggravated and worried voice calling out to her (sighing in relief when she recognised it), she lifted herself up and dusted off her palms as she made her way to the door.

"Hey! Ms. Parkman! You alright in there? My wife said she heard a noise! Miss Parkman?!" Another set of bangs.

She reached out at the last moment and unlatched the door. She opened it up to her landlord, Mr. Inech, whose tall, moustached image belied his worried and caring state. He sighed in relief at the sight of her.

"You okay, Miss Parkman? Alina said..--"

"I'm fine, Mick. I'm-I'm cool. It's just... Tired you know. Beth is still out on maternity leave, so me and Samantha are pulling double shifts for drunks and well... It's fine."

Mick stared at her intently, searching for a bluff. She chuckled a little at that, and brushed him off.

"Don't worry, Mick. I'm fine." She smiled.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Goodnight."

Mick nodded in return and waved, "Goodnight, Molly." He turned around and went back to his own apartment.

Molly closed the door and leaned against it, catching the breath she didn't even know she was holding. She looked around her, closed her eyes, and looked again. Nothing changed. And yet everything was different. Molly closed her eyes one last time, and saw in a distant corner of her mind, she was reaching out and closing a book she always thought she was meant to live.

She opened her eyes. Softly, she made her way over to Sylar. Yes, that was his name. Sylar. She stood before him, gazing over his weakened form. A living, breathing reminder of the life she was forced to live. Not always, but mostly, because of him. Feeling tears creep down her cheeks, she gently lay a hand on his forehead. He was burning up; a fever. She reached out and pulled the blanket over his body, pulling it up to his chin. She tucked in the sides.

Get a grip, she chided herself. Don't sell yourself so short. Not everything has changed. Not everything.

She wiped her face and gathered her bearings. He was going to need stitches. That much blood loss couldn't be anything less than a flesh wound. She stood up and made her way to the kitchen, cursing under her breath about having to organise her cabinets someday.

* * *

After trying as gently as possible to pass liquids through his chapped lips, Molly gave up and simply took a handful of the water and smeared it over his face, relieving some of the heat. She set the glass aside and took a deep breath; she lifted the blanket, untucked his shirt (it had to be a T-shirt), and surveyed the wound. Yep, it was a punture wound. It didn't look burnt though, so she didn't have to worry about bullets. Tentatively, she touched the dried blood, and saw how it gave way at the slightest pressure, releasing new blood that trickled along the already dried trails, mingling with the dirt. The blood wasn't as dark as she worried it would be, so she knew it didn't hit any organs. Still, she wrinkled her nose and took a piece of cloth to clean the clumps. Sylar groaned at the first touch, stalling her hand, but after he settled, she went back to loosening the wound.

When it was completely removed of caked blood, the wound looked less threatening, although blood still trickled out with every weak breath. Molly quickly found her antiseptic and poured a generous amount on a tuft of cotton, dabbing first the outer skin, and then gently holding the wound open, and cleaning it with a few drops of the same medicine.

Okay, so she wasn't exactly a paramedic extraordinaire, but she knew how to keep people alive.

Finally, after the wound was covered in yellow medicine, and the outer skin was beginning to cauterize, she rummaged in her first aid kit for her surgeon needle. Upon finding it, she reached into her back pocket and pulled out the lighter one of the customers left behind that day. She burned the tip of the needle, sanitizing it, then threading it with a thin but strong, black thread.

As she stitched up the wound, she let her mind wander. She always did have a filter-less mind. She guessed it came from having the luxury of taking glimpses into other people's minds, not to the point of poking, but enough to deduce first impressions that went beyond the appropriate hellos and introductions. She wondered about her Dad; was Matt still in Washington with the Petrelli brothers? It had been a while since she called him up, but then again the jobs they did usually required her to stay as distant as possible from them during execution. It had been almost ten years actually since she even called him 'Matt'; she was used to calling him Dad.

With Mohinder though, it was a different situation. By the time she was fifteen, she already started referring to him as Father or Daddy. Usually because she figured they shared blood. But unlike Matt, she also drifted away from Mohinder earlier on than anyone expected. When she finished college she gravitated more towards Matt, and Mohinder eventually went back to Mohinder. These days she thought of them both as 'Dad', her way of keeping them close now that she was alone.

The needle slipped through the flesh one last time, and she carefully snipped the thread. Careful, she lowered the T-shirt and pulled the blanket back over his body. She felt for his fever again, and took the wet cloth she had soaked in a bowl of herbal water (Mohinder's trick), and wiped Sylar's face, before putting it on his forehead, noting the slight wince.

Molly thought about Claire; where in the world was she now? Was she still married to West? Did she have a family? She would be, what, thirty-four now? Molly wondered if she had aged. Claire never aged. Mohinder said that it was because she could spontaneously regenerate, but for all their time together, Molly never caught even a glimpse of that ability. Claire would always smile though, when Molly began to grow from small, to short, to lanky and eventually awkwardsly half-developed, half-prepubescent; Claire remained her youthful, young adult prime, all smiles and twinkled eyes, and fingers no more delicate than the first day Molly shook them. Molly always like Claire. Everyone loved Claire.

She picked up her things and made her way to the kitchen to clean up, and put everything away. As she did so, she stole a glance at the clock hanging above her fridge, the numbers for a moment nothing but a blur, until she rubbed her eyes and saw the numbers 6 and 3 conjoined by two, thin pointers.

"Three-thirty in the morning..." she murmured, biting the side of her lip in thought. She put away the kit and soaked her other washcloths under cold running water, and then dumping another helping of the various Indian herbs Mohinder taught her about, into her boiling pot, drumming her fingers as she did so.

Work started at nine. Could she trust someone to keep an eye on the guy while she went to work? Doubted it... To have someone keep an eye on someone, there would first have be a someone to actually relegate that job to... Let's see. She could get Timothy from down the hall; he was a sculptor, so he should be home all day. And if he argued that he needed to do some work in his studio, she could argue that her own studio apartment was spacious enough. She could lend it to him.

Then again, Timothy was kind of avoiding her since finding out that her father was with Homeland Security. Yeah, well, don't ask why; she didn't ask, he never explained. Still, awkward was awkward.

She could get Alina to babysit. Yeah, Alina was nice, she could keep an eye on Sylar. That is, if he doesn't wake up. Last time someone asked Alina to babysit a drunk, she downright called the police when the man woke up delirious and speaking Spanish. Sylar would probably do some sort of magic trick if he woke up; nope, Alina no good.

Wendell? Nah. Last she checked, dogs on babysitting duty usually spent more time sleeping than watching.

What was she gonna do...?

Sighing just as the water in the pot overflowed, she turned down the flame and dried her hands. She needed to call Beth, maybe she could spare a couple of days off her maternity leave.

* * *

"Yeah, just a few days... No? I really need this. Something urgent... No-no... It's not my dad... What? Oh. Oh... What about Deidre?"

Deidre.

He didn't know that name.

He didn't know that voice.

He didn't know... What the hell? Was he under a blanket? Where the fuck was he?!

He tried to move, tried to lift his arm. The pain rushed up towards his shoulders and her growled in excruciation. What the-?! The fucking hell was this?! Where was he?! Who's holding him here!!

He squinted through his lids, and saw the yellowish ceiling above him, the antique light flickering ever so slightly. He looked around, and saw walls, warmly painted brownish-red, curtains pulled shut with barely a sliver of the moon visible outside the window. Stuff, just random stuff, were aligned along the walls on racks and stands, both stained and polished, while pictures in black frames with little white ribbons, filled up the walls' surfaces, with smaller, flowery blue stand-frames littering the same junk-filled wall racks. In front of him, or to his right, a television was staring down at him, cold and unalive as its dark screen reflected so very slightly, his condition on the creaky couch. He saw the area behind the couch, however blur and curved out, and saw the door, the coat stand, the same junk-filled racks and pictures of places he scarcely remembered. He slowly constructed the thought in his mind, that he wasnt in some sort of holding area, but perhaps a home. Some random home.

Great, now he was going to have to play nice priest again.

He tried again to move his arm, and felt the sharp stab of reality hit him like a fist. He cursed, lifting his left arm instead (which was pinned under him; this good samaritan was an idiot) and felt over his waist for the wound. He creeped along under the blanket, until he felt the same pain act up at the sudden pressure. He felt the wound, surprised in the slightest to find that it was, in fact, already sealed up. Okay. That was supposed to be good. He tried to stand up.

"GAAH!!" He howled, as the pain rammed into his entire body. He fell off the couch, clutching his side, the agony almost like being stabbed all over again. He knocked the basin that was placed near the couch, presumably for that cloth that just fell off his forehead, and his hand slipped on the fluids. He lost his balance, falling forward and knocking his head on the wooden floor, igniting his temper into another overdrive. He struggled to stand up again, ignoring the pain as best he could, when he caught a movement in the corner of his eye. Darting to the television screen, he saw the shadow of someone coming up to him. In one swift move, he got himself to his feet and found himself face to face with his captor, arm still clutching his side.

She stopped in her steps, frozen in time, then gasped and turned to run away.

He was quicker, and suddenly infuriated to no end. He thrust out his hand, intending to slam her against the wall. She immediately lost her footing and fell short as if hitting an invisible border, but it was obviously far from what he had intended. She landed on her front, hands splayed forward in an attempt to break her fall, but the impact sprained her wrist and she shouted in pain, still desperately trying to reach her door. He made his way to her slowly, watching her writhe in fear, before reaching down and hoisting her up by her collar and looking her dead in the eye.

"Who are you!! What did you do to me?!"

She shook her head, unable to speak, blood starting to trickle from her nose. He moved in closer, tightening his hold and demanding her answer.

"Where am I?!"

"Here...-" He urged her on with a silent threat. Biting back the pain that was starting to return, his face winced deeply, yet he refused to release her. She clawed at his grip, gasping for air while struggling to get some semblence of balance under her feet, as the angle she was in merely added gravity to his hold. She continued to move her lips, intending to explain, but torn between begging for her life and explaining her good samaritan intentions.

Seeing that this current position was as much pressure on her as it was on his wound, he snarled and hoisted her up to her feet, slamming her against the wall, hard enough to blur her vision. She steadied the growing ache between her eyes, and found some level of footing, enough to gather straight thought.

"Why am I here?! What did you do to me?! My wound...-!"

"You w-were...- B-bleeding...!! I patched you up; PLEASE!! Don't hurt me, I was only trying to help you!!"

"What do you mean!?" He slammed her again, harder. Her world went black for a brief second. He leaned into her, breath smelling of whiskey, and taking in her fear and trembling. She whimpered at his proximity, fearful of everything he was capable of doing.

"I HEAL..." he hissed venomously, "I would have healed! If I'm still bleeding; WHAT THE HELL, HAVE YOU DONE TO ME!!" Again, Molly felt the same vision she felt earlier, hit her in her gut. Over and over, the pressure of having the person she was thinking of, being right in front of her; it was like recoil from a gun - hitting her in return for every shot she took. She tried frantically to deny the instinct to think about Sylar, the Boogeyman, the supposedly deceased killer of evolved individuals; the endless list of crimes he committed throughout his time, and all the times she herself helped others find him and stop him. She struggled to simply focus on the fact that he wasn't missing, but right there in her living room.

"Did you hear me?! Who are you!!"

"N-n..No one!! Please! I just took you in to help you!! You were bleeding... A few hours more and you'd be dead!"

"That's a lie!! I would heal!! I would..!-" He suddenly recoiled and grasped his chest, coughing. His hold on Molly slipped, and she fell to the floor in a heap, blood trickling down her lip, sprained wrist pinned under her back. She pulled the wounded limb to her chest, and pressed up against the wall, watching as Sylar started coughing harder and harder, struggling to stand up, arms lashing around, searching for support of any kind. His body shook with every emission, unsettling almost, adding a different sense of worry in Molly's mind, since the last time she saw him in the flesh, he was strong and downright invincible. To just see him in a state of weakness and without his guard, somehow stirred fear in Molly's eyes.

He growled after every cough pushed him further away from the her, subconsciously to protect himself (this was unbecoming of him; it had to be her fault), and partially to hide himself. Dammit, he was SYLAR! The greatest creature alive!! More powerful than any god in any primitive mind; he was invincible! This-this...-! This fucking ache in his chest...! Dammit!! What the fuck is going on?! What did that little bitch do to me!?

He grasped his chest so tight he wondered if the tightness was his own fingers or this foreign ailment that had suddenly overtook him. He felt every muscle in his body clench and contract, then felt the harsh force of those coughs rip through his tendons, a cruel mixture of solidity and force. If he tried to relax his muscles, the coughs would cause his bones to rattle like wooden dolls; and if he forced his body to toughen up, the coughs would charge through every hardened nerve, forcing them apart, and filling him with unexplainable pain. He soon found himself on his knees, head inches from the floor, doubled over in agony. He felt a faint blooming of pain grow in his gut.

Molly slowly stood up, eyeing the door cautiously. She calculated the distance between the exit and her position, mentally reprimanding herself for being so stupid in bringing this monster home. Happy now, Molly? She imagined a few well deserved smacks delivered on to her bruised cheeks, the soundtrack of her earlier thoughts on how her humanity was what separated her from the screwed up world she now lived in, and how that humanity deemed this - this monster! - person as being worthy of mercy like anyone else; running through her head, over and over again. Right, she thought, and this is what you get. You stupid girl.

She took a deep breath and broke out running for the door. Sylar noticed a moment too late, and in his mixed confusion, he sent her flying forward, slamming her against the door itself. She hit it hard, crying out in pain. Twice the charm, twice the return. This second blow was too much, and in the corner of his eye, Sylar saw as she turned her back to the door, slumped on the floor with her hair tousled and drenched in sweat, her forehead was bleeding profusely, the outline of an obvious cut painted just below her hairline. She lolled her head left and right, probably trying to figure out a new escape plan. Still coughing, he forced himself up and inched towards the girl, preparing to finish her off. He stalked resolutely towards her.

The cough that suddenly shot through him was uncalled for, slamming his head forward and sending his knees into penatance. He knew his body would fall forward over her, the girl gasping and bracing herself for an attack. Without a word, Sylar could no longer control the loss of balance and gave in to his weakened knees, stumbling heavily. For a brief moment, he opened an eye, and saw the bloody girl shield herself with her bruised arms, closing up on him.

At the last moment, he thrust out his arms and held himself from that inevitable fall. He had blood on his hands, and sweaty palms between him and the door; it barely lasted a second. He was falling again.

This time, it was the luck that his knees hit the floor first and his head hitting the door at angle, allowing him to move his shoulder in as well, that stalled his descent. He stopped, leaning head first into the door, inches away from the girl shrieking under him. He brought up his other hand to hold on to the door's surface, feeling another cough rock through him.

Molly shrieked when she saw him advance towards her; but then there were sounds of thuds and blows and crashes, all concealed from view by the arms she lifted somewhere between him standing up and the moment another loud cough rang through - this time far too close to her own position. She had cowered against the door, praying for help, but then, after hearing that horrible sound, she immediately opened her eyes and lowered her arms, shocked to find him slumped over her, a few inches short from her face. Molly gasped, at a loss at how to get out of the, literally, tight spot. She tried twisting away from his shoulder, but was blocked by a bloody hand clawing at the door, beside her face.

Molly blinked for a moment, seeing the blood on the hand and wrist planted before her eyes. Wait. He wasn't... Wha..-?

She instinctively snapped her head towards his other arm and side. Her eyes followed the joint pressed against the door, and found the patch of dark on his dirty T-shirt. She held her breath, realising what the coughs and the rough movements he had forced himself to do, must have caused. Molly felt as if time stopped when a tiny drop of red joined the already growing pool on the floor, directly under the supposedly closed wound. She swallowed; humanity was humanity, damn the consequences. Her mind began to race with possible solutions for this messed up situation. She felt that voice in the back of her head yell and pull at her hair to stop her from moving, but she ignored it. She planted her hands firmly on the floor and made her move.

She pushed herself up into a proper sitting position, head peeking out between Sylar's left arm and shoulder. With as much strength as she could allow herself, she pulled her feet under her, and set about procuring an upright position. She hooked her arm around Sylar's waist, holding him in place as he began coughing again, with her sprained wrist; then with a deep breath, she forced her feet down and her knees up, raising the both of them.

Sylar stirred for a moment, growling under his breath.

"What are you -cough- doing?"

Molly shrugged as she managed to achieve vertical position. "You're bleeding again. You-...you need help with the stitches..."

Sylar struggled, even as his right arm latched onto her shoulder for support. "I told you!!" he hissed, "I don't need...-!!"

Molly held onto him with both arms as another cough caught his knees off balance once more. Feeling a sudden sense of frustration that she had never felt before, she held him tight and led him forward towards the couch. She half-dragged him, even then he was weakly pushing her away with one arm still holding on to her shoulder, until she could finally dump him onto the couch, not caring that he landed on his front instead of his back. Shaking the blood out of her yes, she summoned her last bit of strength and rolled him over. Immediately, she barely missed an angry elbow to her face. Frowning, she pushed the elbow down and glared Sylar dead in the eye.

"Dammit, Sylar! I'm trying to help you!! You're bleeding, alright!!"

She forced herself up, finding her way to the kitchen and grabbing the things she had put away barely an hour ago. She returned and immediately went to work, lifting the shirt and surveying the wound that was not only open, but larger than it was an hour ago. She dabbed it with a cloth soaked in hot water and hydrogen peroxide. Sylar swatted her arm away. Not in the mood to deal with his antics again, Molly forcefully pushed the hand aside, and held it down with her aching wrist, continuing to clean the ragged wound.

She felt tears begin to trickle down her face, both from physical pain, emotional fear, and sudden realisation at how she was doing all this because she was holding on to something that was just wrong. Hopeless. She bit her lip.

"Just because you're evil and against the rest of the world, against the rest of us... That doesn't mean that you can't be human for once. Just... human..."

Sylar felt the coughs subside, and he looked up at the whispered words. He frowned.

Molly looked at him, anger and fear written all over her face. She wondered why it mattered, taking this man into her care, when she knew it was useless. Now, she had a tiny sliver of light upon her question.

Hope. She needed hope.

"Why can't you be Hope for once? Proof that...-"

Her words failed her. And with a soft curse and a 'forget it', she pressed the cloth down, illiciting a groan from Sylar, determinedly going on with her work.

Sylar turned away, closing his eyes from the sharp stings.

The hell do you know, woman? You don't know a damn thing. Don't pretend that you do.

Damned doesn't deserve hope.


	3. Chapter 3 : He Ran

Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes, or Gackt. Now we do the chicken dance ;

A/N: The third chapter of Dooms day! Yay! Yeah, I'm actually happy I finished this one, because I think I've kinda found my way back onto the road towards righting Sylar and Molly alongside the theme of Gackt's Doomsday. It's still far from finished, so you can bet that I'll still be writing, but this chapter feels good, and less diverged than the last. I hope you all like it. I'm trying to get into Sylar's head more this time, and it seems a little OOC, but I'm doing my best to create my post-Heroes Angst!Sylar - hope it doesn't scare anyone away. Thanks for the reviews. Yay!!

Onwards!!

**Dooms Day  
**

* * *

He woke up feeling like he had finally woken up after a lifetime of dreaming. The world was clearer, the lines and grooves proven by their shadows, the shadows proven by their lights. The lights proven by their darkness. Whatever direction the air was flowing, it was flowing all the same; breath and wind intermingled, both nothing but transparent caresses of an unseen nature. Sounds rang outside, inside, and all around. He heard it all, felt it all, a moment of contemplation passing in the air before he realised that he hadn't used any of his powers to experience the morning he was experiencing now. No listening for suspicious talks, no sensing for unwanted presences, and no prickle in the back of his neck - the kind that usually came when he hungered for more than food or drink. The urge to consume another set of unwanted abilities; another step in his quest to becoming perfect. For the first time in a long time, he almost felt at ease.

Almost. The moment that complacent atmosphere was broken by a silent shuffle, he instinctively threw up the layers upon layers of shields around him - some to block mental psychics, others to block physical advancements. His fist clenched and froze, radiating icy wisps of air.

The shuffle was distant, at the far end of the room. He used his left arm as leverage, and pushed himself up into a half-sitting position, squinting through the brightness of the sun, searching for the source of the shuffling. The quiet television screen in front of him copied his movements, and the image of himself wrapped up in a thin blanket with a damp cloth on his forehead, immediately brought the events in his memory back to life. He sat up fully and removed the cloth, looking around for the person who had brought him here.

Another shuffle; he turned his head slightly, and saw the mound of white moving about at the far corner of the room. He narrowed his eyes, surprised slightly when a pale, bruised limb dropped over the side of the bed, limp and almost lifeless-like. It still had traces of blood and grime.

Whether it was relief or resentment that filled him at the moment, he couldn't tell. The events that happened last night came back crystal clear; every detail of pain and anger and confusion that seemed to permeate the air around him that moment he realised he was in unfamiliar territory, bleeding - despite him having the luxury of healing. But then, it wasn't exactly a surprise to be bleeding... The thing was, that ability he gained from Claire Bennet was... Forget it. Not important.

He felt over his abdomen for the wound. It was neatly sealed up again, clean and already starting to cauterize deeper. Just cause, he tried clenching his gut. The pain poked through, slight like a couple of needles, but there all the same. He cursed and relaxed himself, breathing deeply, one breath, two breaths.

He carefully lifted his legs and swung them over the side of the couch, one arm pushing, the other arm grabbing the back of the couch to manouvere himself into a sitting position. He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning back, absorbing this unusual world he had somehow stumbled into. Pushing away the blankets, he noted the dirt all over his jeans, and the blood that covered odd places on both jeans and T-shirt. He lifted his hands and saw the smudges that darkened his skin, completely out of place when he saw how it clashed against the stained, but clean, wooden floor. He was filthy, for the love of God, he was a dirty and disgusting, with dirt even in his hair. What a winner.

All the more for this good samaritan to not possibly be JUST a good samaritan. I mean, he's found ways into homes and houses throughout his 'career' before, but dressing up and both looking and smelling like a homeless hobo; that remains one tactic he's seen disproven time and time again. Especially within the hell hole of a city New York was these days.

Gripping the couch as hard as he could, he willed himself to stand up without so much as a whimper. Which he accomplished almost perfectly, if not for the wound biting into him like a bad natured ferret. He cursed for an eternity before taking a better survey of his surroundings, now that height was on his side. He observed the single exit, the lone kitchen, the scattered makeshift tables and studies or reading areas, the pictures, the strewn clothes, the first aid kit that was left on the single chair unclosed. He surveyed the molds on the ceiling, the watermarks streaking around them, the general idea that the place was home, but far from glamorous.

His eye caught sight of tiles lining walls within a room. He looked at his shirt, wondered, then looked at the girl who was still asleep in her own bed. He could... Might as well.

Quietly, and using his telekinesis to move him swifter towards the bathroom, he entered the space and locked the door. He wasted no time stripping, careful to hang his clothes furthest away from the shower, then stretched his muscles, feeling knots from sleeping on the couch, fade away into his flesh. He turned on the water and adjusted the temperature, waiting a moment for the water to get just right.

He was staring at his feet, but when he looked up to grab a towel, he caught his own face in the mirror. He paused, and stared at himself, thoughts running through his mind.

She had known him. She called him Sylar.

His eyes darkened at the thought. He'll need to question her again later; that sort of knowledge wasn't commonplace. He was a notorious man, but no one - no one - outside of those he hunted, or who hunted him, knew who he was. Around the city, around America, he had his own aliases. But Sylar remained unique and singular, never even used with fake last names. Still, this girl knew him.

He would question her again, squeeze the air out of her throat if he had to. But for now, his captor had benefits he had a right to exploit. And showers were heavenly, with or without abilities.

* * *

Molly shot up from her sleep, frantic for some reason and not knowing or remembering, why. She searched around, eyeing her living room while her heart thumped away in her chest, almost exploding out of its cage. Her body was trembling, sweat between her fingers that clenched the sheets, nails digging into the fabric. She breathed deeply; something was up. It had to be. This feeling...

Sylar...!

"New York City, and you don't even have coffee... Are you British?"

Molly yelped and pushed against the headboard so hard, a couple of her pictures fell off the wall. She gaped at the formerly invalid man standing in front of her, one hand in his pocket as he sipped a mug of some hot drink, all the while leaning against the lone pillar of her apartment. For a moment she was sure her heart had stopped, and that her scalp was lying somewhere across the room, hidden under her infinite resolute of dust. Sylar was probably plotting the best way to get rid of her body at the very moment. His wound probably prohibits any heavy lifting, so she was only slightly appalled when the idea of her rotting away in her own bed, flashed before her eyes. At least she'd be haunting her own place, now wouldn't she?

Sylar smirked at her discomfort, only slightly struggling to not tremble as his breathing pressed against his naked wound. The towel that he decided to keep on his shoulders smelled of yellow roses, soothing almost, and it filled the still air that seemed to hang between them. His jasmine tea was also the picture of soothing palettes of light; just slightly sweet, but with enough caffeine to keep his wincing eyes awake. The steam that rose from the mug fled away into the upper half of the atmosphere, undaunted by the silence.

The girl stared at him, horrified. Good, he thought, you haven't forgotten who I am... Or what I can do. The little bitch knows I'm no fucking invalid anymore.

Molly just stared; half of her anticipating his next move, the other wishing her imagination was real - because Sylar was like a tiger on the prowl when he did that. This. Waiting. Molly thought she'd die from the fear. Or from the palpitations that were practically screaming through her chest.

She kept her place, silently praying that whatever Sylar decided to do; he'd do it quick - preferably painless.

Sylar scoffed and pushed himself off the pillar, spinning on his heel before casually flicking a finger over his shoulder.

Molly ducked, the image of sliced scalps flashing before her eyes, only to instead catch the sound of an ascending whistle cut down into an abrupt, lazy hiss. She lifted her head, eyes immediately turning towards her kitchen.

The kettle was perched snugly upon her stove, steam rising out of its nozzle. She noticed that a couple of her plates and cutlery were scattered over the small table, smeared with what she could guess as being peanut butter and tuna, a bag of bread carelessly opened up and quite obviously, ravaged. Molly wanted to smack herself for taking more than a second to put two and two together.

Of course! I'm a homeless man who woke up in a stranger's house! God forbid I go through - and completely consume - their measley foodsource! Perfect sense!

Sylar was in her house (only because she brought him there)... and he's eating her bread. This... cannot be right.

Molly took a deep breath. One breath. Two breaths. Deeper. Okay.

Wake up, Molly.

She opened her eyes, and the first thing she smelled was jasmine tea and toast.

"You know." Molly sat up, pulling the blankets around her body. She lifted her head slightly to her right, catching the dark hair and sun-yellow towel just barely covered by the pillar. Sylar was leaning nicely against her couch.

"I appreciate what you did last night. Taking me in. Taking care of me." Molly blinked, the blanket wounding tighter around her. A frown found its way between her brows.

Sylar smiled, and leaned back, catching the girl's line of vision. He'd done this before, and he was good. Circumstances didn't matter; all that mattered was that this particular scenario - him awake and some woman waking up - was familiar. Familiar and playable.

This was a game he knew.

He softened his gaze, dropping all pretenses of hostility. His body language said 'I'm glad I'm alive. You saved me...' The way he held the mug. The way the towel hung around his shoulders like a pillow. The way he breathed deep, as if he was relishing the air he was still breathing, the air SHE helped him keep. He relaxed the muscles in his shoulders, although he was prepared to send whatever type of ability he had hidden underneath his skin, at a moments notice. He was sure that the last thing he looked like was danger.

He kept his gaze at the girl, silently asking her to join him on the couch. A peace offering.

Molly swallowed the lump in her throat, and slowly stood up. Grabbing the robe she hung on a chair by her bed, she slipped into it, crossing both arms around herself, careful to not let the man see that she had removed her uniform before she went to bed; all she had underneath was a camisole and biker shorts. Turning to face him, she saw that he had already taken his eyes off her, and was silently sipping his tea while he watched some documentary on birds the television struggled to show. Molly breathed in relief.

"I'm not looking. Feel free to use the bathroom at your convenience." Sylar lifted his eyes to her paling face. He smiled, brightly. "It's okay, Miss. I won't hurt you." He actually laughed, as if the events last night was some sort of joke. "Whatever happened last night was a misunderstanding. Probably some sort of new side-effect from the vaccines the government makes us take every six months or so. I assure you, I am perfectly fine."

The girl just kept on staring back down at him. Sylar cocked his head slightly at the lack of reaction.

"You...- You tried to kill me..." she stammered - whispered hoarsely.

Sylar's eyes darkened at that. He felt a smirk tug at his lips. "I did? Did I?"

Molly watched as he took her statement in, then looked away, almost as if in shame. He set the mug down on the table, hands clenching in and out, thinking. Molly inched backwards, intending to reach for the gun her dad made her keep in the kitchen drawer. Sylar let out a large breath.

He turned to her, this time an expression of hurt and regret on his face. Molly would have laughed at the obvious game he was playing, if she didn't already know that what she was witnessing right now, was what this man had done to countless others before her: charm, pity, relationship. He was baiting her into trusting him.

"Oh my god. I knew alcohol had its downsides... I never thought... I did, didn't I? I hit you... I threw you up the wall and I... did I threaten you?" The look on his face was actually sincere; Molly felt her knees grow cold quicker than ice. Sylar kept his eyes on her, studying her moves.

"Did I threaten you?" Molly felt it go through her chest like an ice pick.

"I...- You... You said you'd kill me... And you'd take... powers..."

Sylar had her pinned against the sink before she could even reach for the drawers. His tall frame loomed over her, one hand tightening around her wind-pipe, the other snatching her wandering arm and pinning it down. She gasped, eyes wide and fearful.

"I..- Please... No...!"

"Shut up!! Shut the hell up!!" The girl stopped, holding in her cries. He leaned back a little, giving her space to breathe. "Who are you?"

She shook her head frantically. "No one!"

Sylar slapped her hard across the face, busting her lower lip. She twisted and hunched over the counter, cradling her mouth. He smirked, before grabbing her by the arm and twisting her to face him.

"I'll ask you again." He lifted his hand in front of her face, and right before her eyes, a black cloud grew between his fingers - the next thing she knew, the large, inscribed hand-gun was in his grasp.

Molly gasped as she recognised the initials carved in at the hilt of the weapon. M.P. Her dad's gun. Sylar had her dad's gun.

The gun was pointed at her face. "Who. Are. You?"

Molly swallowed, staring at the gun's silent nozzle. Sylar kept his hold on her arm, squeezing hard, pushing into the scratchmarks she had inflicted on herself the night before. Against her own warnings, she found herself crying out at the sudden pain.

Sylar looked at her, annoyed. Rolling his eyes, he mentally removed the safety lock and cocked the slide. He returned the gun to the girl's wincing face.

"Answer me... I SAID ANSWER ME!!"

The girl keened softly, pulling her arm away into herself, alerting him to her situation. Out of curiosity, with a swift move, he tugged the robe down her left and exposed her bruised arm. He was actually taken by surprise, but the equation soon fell into place and he found himself laughing. The idea was simply ironic. He released her immediately and stepped back, amusedly studying her next move.

She looked up at him, shrugging the sleeve back on, tears in her eyes. He laughed once more at the sight of those wide, innocent, stupid eyes.

"So, which is it? Husband or boyfriend?"

She furrowed her brows at that, even as she was trying to melt into the woodwork. Sylar waved his hand in encouragement. "Come on, who was it? A husband, or a boyfriend?"

She kept on staring. Sylar was beginning to think that maybe she was a fucking mute. He pulled a chair from under the meager dining table and sat himself down, making himself comfortable, gun hanging from his hands. He continued to stare up at the deer-hit-by-the-headlights woman cowering against the sink. What a story! This was certainly new!

Molly thought her tongue was gone from her mouth. Sylar just suddenly started asking her about husbands and boyfriends; now he was watching her like a jaguar, with her father's gun in his hands! This was crazy. Freaky. Of course, the world she knew went crazy seventeen years ago when that very same man killed her family - but now it seems like the world was far from done; especially since it turned out that the very catalyst of every one of those events, was very much alive and well. Molly bit her lower lip, tasting the blood.

All sarcasm fled from her mind at the coppery taste. She suddenly fell to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably, trembling on the floor. Good God! All the things she and her family had done to save the world! To protect others from people like Sylar; protect people FROM Sylar! All those years running, surviving! Was it all going to go to waste, what with the fact that Sylar was alive!? After their last effort in destroying him? And in being so sure that they had in fact ACTUALLY succeeded in killing him?! Was she going to die before getting the chance to tell her father that they had failed?!

"Please... Don't hurt me... I was only trying to help... I- I was...- Please..."

Sylar smirked and found himself the next moment, crouching down beside her, stroking her hair. He grinned at the way she didn't even pull away; man, this girl was damaged goods for sure. Her arms... The fact she saved him and all... The last time he met someone like her, she was Hispanic with brown eyes and a good for nothing brother. Of course, she wasn't exactly abused or anything, but she was a fucking martyr. The whole world would have hated her for her powers - but she was adamant that there was a reason for her existence. Stupid bitch. She took him in, just like this new girl did, and made herself think that by helping weak, helpless him, she was atoning for whatever sin her feeble mind was demanding her penatance for. How pathetic.

He lifted her chin, looking directly upon her tear-streaked face. She was a pretty girl, not as beautiful as Maya or Claire had been of course, but still viable. In fact, her most interesting feature was just that - interesting - despite being just another mortal genetic trait. It was her eyes; blue as blue could get. Electric blue, almost, sharp against her pale skin and auburn hair. And the tears made the colours pop out - tiny gems within nests of flesh, and Sylar wondered briefly if that was an ability of some sort, because he's seen crying women before - made several of them cry himself - but he has never seen a woman's (or anyone's for that matter) eyes look their best when drenched in tears.

The cabinets behind her suddenly grew a brighter shade of brown, their shadows darkening dramatically, heat growing on his exposed back. The sun was rising higher into the sky, its light and heat beginning its unforgiving downpour upon the world. Sylar curled his lip at the way the girl's eyes began to shine in an almost divine manner, brightest bright and blinding. The tears refracted light, adding a glitter of diamonds upon her lashes and along her cheeks; Sylar turned away.

It felt as if he was looking into the eyes of a god or something.

He stood up and turned to the curtains, flicking his wrist to slide the planes of cloth shut. Once more, the apartment was engulfed in semi-darkness. He looked down and saw the girl bury the heels of her palms into her face; gone was the glow she bathed in two seconds ago. Sylar sat back down on the dining chair, studying the girl's steadfast refusal to look at him in return.

"Who was it?" he asked, softer than he expected. "Who used to hit you?"

Molly's head shot up at that, a puzzled look all over her face. Hit? What...?

"What do you mean?"

Sylar flipped the gun from one hand to the other, eyes still trained on her. Molly felt the answer come through, but so vague and unconventional that she, quite simply, didn't understand it. Sylar's eyes shifted slightly to her left.

"Who used to hurt you?" Molly parted her lips, intending to say something, but not sure what.

"Who used to hurt you, Miss?" He repeated. Molly furrowed her brows further instead, and Sylar stood up, spinning the gun on his forefinger.

"People like you," he began,"- the ones who take care of lost causes like me - you don't become do-gooders because some guru on TV tells you to spread the love. People like you feel sympathy because they've seen their own share of misery. They relate." He sat back down, right beside her on the floor. "Usually, to the same sort that their rescuees went through prior to their salvation."

Molly watched as he leaned back into the cabinets, just a foot away from her, his dark eyes staring blankly across the small space between them and the dining table. He was much taller than her, Molly thought, just his shoulders were at level with her chin. The sunny towel he had shrouded over his shoulders when she first woke up, had apparently fallen off sometime earlier, leaving his shoulders bare and clean. Molly saw light scars all over his left half.

Sylar abruptly turned to her, narrow glare as cold as ice. A soft thud hit Molly in her chest as her instincts kicked in, a low cry slipping out of her lips. She bent over and calmed herself with a hand over her heart.

Her eyes drifted shut. "No one."

Sylar raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yes. No one. Never. It's just... I've had my share. I...-"

"-Wait on bleeding junkie-alcoholics at the diner?" She actually reacted normally at the lame joke, narrowing her eyes. "Your uniform. The Neptune's Diner down east."

She hung her head and nodded quietly, grasping her arms, wrapping herself in an invisible cocoon. Sylar watched with a hunch as her fingers naturally curled into her limbs, the nails clawing at the robe's fabric.

"I... I was part of the Lockdown five years ago. I-We... We were part of the medical volunteers unit." She looked paler, if possible, the streaks on her cheeks drying up to leave sticky trails behind. Her gaze had suddenly morphed into a blank stare; the sort that followed buried memories. "It just...-- There was...- There was a lot... Of... you know..."

The word slipped out. "Death."

The girl's hands downright clenched around her biceps in an instant, Sylar's ears picking up that unmistakable sound of tearing flesh - however small they were. The hold broke the moment the pain registered, and the girl seemingly cursed inwardly as she shakily laid her hands onto the cold floor, breath ragged from her lips. She closed her eyes, and nodded.

"Yeah. Death. Lots of it."

Sylar cocked his head slightly at her tone; something about it was... I don't know. Sad? Hurt? He pondered and watched her blatant stare at the floor for a long, inappropriate moment, before forcing his feet to stand up at a moment's notice, the gun left just beside her fingers. He looked around his surroundings, hands on his waist, one foot tapping a few times - like a thinking man - before decidedly spinning on his heel once more, and heading for the door. He seemed a mind made up to drop this apparently pointless game, and headed for the exit this girl couldn't defend, even if she tried to in her current state. But for some reason, whatever fake stability he had been waving around ten minutes earlier made their own decision to fail him, and a loss of footing coupled with an awkward angle, equaled a wave of a bite snap at his side. His hand flew to his stomach as he felt the wound stab at him, and by impulse groaned, doubling over in pain, just barely up a few steps up.

The girl shot to her feet.

"Sylar...!"

Alarm bells went off and Sylar's head snapped towards her, the look of threatened fury in his eyes blazing angrily. He looked as if he had suddenly remembered an important detail, and without warning, lunged for her immediately, dragging her up by her arms.

"What did you call me?!" he growled, dark glare burning into her. "Who are you?! WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!"

Molly gasped, realising her mistake.

"How the HELL do you KNOW MY NAME!!"

Molly screamed as the vision hit her once more, scenes of crimes flashing before her eyes, tearing through her skull. A list of places and faces, every damn time she had ever found him, every time the word 'Sylar' was mentioned and her ability was triggered. Dammit!! He's here, she thought. He's here!!

"He's here!!" Sylar's arms held her at just length. "He's HERE!! He...! Sylar...- You're... here..."

Sylar's grip trembled for a moment, something about the outburst unsettling him, a wave of cold rushing through his body and leaving him taking breaths all too fast and slow at the same time. Something CLICKED in his head, but whatever it was that suddenly bathed in a long forgotten spotlight, lost somewhere in his buried memories - Sylar just didn't know. But the way the girl was trembling; the way she was hiding her eyes as if her vision was looking upon a sin too great to commit to memory; all of it seemed too familiaristic. He recalled moments like these - somewhere - but everything was too deep down lost, and try as he may, the only things that seemed to emerge from the infinite black hole he gave up on, somewhere along the line, was a scattered album of half-images and faceless aquantainces. But the Click-click was still in the centre of his head; why?!

The girl had begun to push him away with her fists planted in the middle of his chest, crying softly, murmuring things he couldn't hear. Sylar took a firm hold on her arms and his wandering perceptions, forcing that extra effort into his study of her face, determined to find something that would jog him into remembering. It seemed important that he does, important that he figures out why this girl was suddenly so hysterical around him; why she was suddenly so afraid of him - and especially why she somehow knew his name. But the girl was pushing with all her might, curling into herself, and shaking so bad it was as if she already knew what was going to happen; what usually followed.

"He's here..." she sobbed.

A voice in his head seemed to answer in return to the small statement. He could only hear a fraction of its words, but it left a twisting feel in his stomach, a sick sense that sank into him and led him into vertigo.

He was reacting towards this stranger. Why? Why would some girl's cries and tears affect his self? His very existence? Why?

The girl was suddenly starting to lose her balance; she wasn't breathing well - her sobs were restricting the air to her chest. Realising this, and without a second thought, Sylar mentally flicked the curtains apart all around the apartment, sliding the windows open to allow in the warm, windy, summer air. In an instant, light poured in all around, and the apartment gleamed in sudden shades of gold and bronze. Sylar was taken by surprise by the abundance of light, so shocked that he reflexively relinquished his hold on the girl, taking a few steps back into the shadows over the main door, one of the only places that didn't receive direct light. He looked away to adjust his eyes, then looked back up at the girl he left behind.

She was on her knees, head still bowed down, arms still limp and helpless. Sylar stayed his steps, a part of him unwilling to look once more on this silent mystery. He took a few more steps backwards, right hand feeling for the doorknobs. He needed... to go...

The sudden movement of an arm caught his attention. The girl lifted her left limb to wipe away her tears. After another inappropriate length of a moment, she rested the limb's hand on her chest. She breathed in, slowly. Slowly. Deeply.

Without so much as a sound, she began to lift her head, moment after inappropriate moment passing before them, between them, within them. Sylar kept his eyes down at her languid movement.

And now he was watching her, into her. Those blue, electric, crystalline blue eyes tearedly gazing up at him, unspeakable pain swimming within their depths. Sylar felt that fear, that humiliating humility-like weight over him once more, bearing down and forcing him to remember all the other eyes that had ever looked upon him in tears; begging, pleading. The lights accentuated them, flaring them into points of eternity. Sylar held up his hand, a base-line instinct fueled reaction; a pointless attempt at stopping this oblivion-bound race.

But he frowned when his hand came up, on level with the image of her kneeling form. Sylar's breath stopped; this was familiar... She kept looking up at him, begging wordlessly with those tears falling from her eyes, rolling down her cheeks. Her screams, her words - everything that had happened a while ago, running right back into his mind. Half-images filled out; faceless aquantainces found their lost features and lines. Red hair, blue eyes, tear-streaked cheeks, and traumatised strength staring back at him.

He's here...!

Sylar fell back, slumping against the door - the world suddenly catching up to him and engulfing him in the guilts he told himself time and time again, were just not worth his time. His human...ity. His human-side... The things he thought he had no right or need to feel.

My god, he thought. It can't be. It's been almost fifteen years... It can't...

"Molly..." he whispered, the words heavy on his tongue. The girl's eyes shone once more, but this time their shine was marred by something akin to fear. Or relief...

"Molly Walker..."

Killing people was one thing; but killing children were another thing altogether. It was sin. He saw the people he killed, some for their powers, some for their influences. But that one thing, that one time...

Fifteen years ago, two large hands wrapping around a young girl's throat, squeezing air out of it and demanding the location of people he wanted to find. More people he wanted to kill... She was so young, barely thirteen... And yet, already she was fighting her way out of his hold - but at the final moment before he ripped clean through her wind-pipe, she had changed. She begged, pleaded for her life. In that one final moment, she was a child again.

And in that one moment he finally saw what a monster he had become.

Bangs. Crashes. Sounds. Shouts. Breaking walls. He lost his hold and let her go. Next thing he knew, he was looking over the stone sidewalks of Russia, ready to get out of this mess. But he made a mistake, and took one last look back, and saw blue eyes staring at him, teary and burning with both fear and relief. Moonlight shone in through the window and surrounded her in an eerie glow. Blue eyes so blue, only gods could have had them to use.

Like a god. A goddess. Something pure and real that he had no right to hurt. She stared at him, silent. Still.

As the lightning bolt hit him, and he found himself falling to the ground without feeling in any part of his bones, flesh or nerves, he remembered thinking: this was the end for him. He was done. Damned as the leeches of hell he was, because he dared to hurt what no one deserved to. He was a monster. It was finally clear; understandable. A monster with no chance for redemption. This was the end for him.

All because those blue eyes - those blue, god-like eyes said it all. He had no right to live.

So many years now, Sylar stared at them now; now they were still, and breaking. No, he thought. No. He refused to drown in his guilt again. No. Fifteen years have passed now, Molly, your curses should have ended. I don't deserve this.

But her eyes remained, and his mind kept remembering. Everything.

Her lips began to move, and he knew it would be too much. He found the door knob, and the next thing he knew was the sun on his back and the loud, tainted world before him. He couldn't do it.

So he ran.


	4. Chapter 4 : Towards The Company

Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes, or The Boogeyman, or... whoever else anyone else seems to think that I should disclaim... I'm poor, I do not have a boyfriend (a real one that is) and I sleep on the floor in my living room. Don't bug me.

(A/N: Chapter four. The chapter that took close to three months to finish... I've been working 24/7, so it's been pretty hard, trying to get back into the mindset of 'Heroes fangirl'. The good news is that I'm back in, so I may start posting more chapters that much frequently again. The bad news, is that the new season has already finished airing, so I'm trying to get my story to move alongside the canonical lines once more. That's gonna be a chore. Anyway, enjoy! Onwards, people!!! Yay!!)

**Dooms Day**

* * *

**Chapter Four**

She remembered. Good god, she remembered. Fifteen years ago - she remembered it all. Her dad... He said something about making her feel safer 'that way'. She... Forgot.

But now... she remembered. And from the looks of it, Sylar remembered as well. The scenes flashed before her eyes, like shadows on the walls she had built within her mind - grey and undefined, but definite in their weight and presence. A cold, winter-laden Russia. A quite, solitary, routine stakeout. She had insisted on coming with them - her dads and the rest of the team - she was old enough to face the Boogeyman head on, and she was ready to prove that she wasn't afraid of him anymore. It had been two, long years since she'd seen him last in Isaac's loft; within that time she had learned how to steel her nerves, enough to help her dads stop other threats, human and evolved - so when the opportunity arose, she was determined to take it.

Okay sure, she had spent most of those aforementioned missions as a voice in a headset or as a well-protected guide in the middle of an escort that would put the President's Secret Service to shame, but something about the idea of putting the Boogeyman behind a bulletproof glass window, made her WANT to get involved in the mission. And that meant getting her hands dirty. The entirety of that mission was spent telling herself that THIS was where the fear ended; THIS was where The Boogeyman's power lost its hold on her. But the truth was, if she was being honest about the whole thing going through her mind, she was more than aware that while this could be where the fear ended - it was more likely to end with her on the floor, bleeding to death.

Because the funny thing about her part in the story, was, that no one else had ever been found, who was like her. Not a single one. Somehow, what with all the experimentation being done by the government and terrorists alike, as well as the continuing discovery of evolveds from all around the world - 'remote location' was still a unique ability, even among the ever-growing palate of abilities the world was slowly learning to live with. Intuitive remote location - if you will - these days. Somehow, Molly remained special - even among all the specials.

And that was why, no matter how Molly tried, the fear never went away. And that was why her dads had tried so hard to keep her out of danger as hard as they could.

Molly took in a deep breath. She'd spent her whole life listening to them. Why the hell didn't she listen to them that night? That one time?

The rest of the story fell like a heap of dirty laundry behind her eyes. She saw the unexpected attack, the one point of time when she was not around her protectors. The one time she wandered off alone, even after being taught the one and only rule - no one goes anywhere without back up. There was a pursuit, a chase into a corner. And there was the feel of two, large hands around her throat... And there was the sense of losing all courage... All strength.

Live... She just wanted to live! She didn't want to DIE.

Sylar's eyes locked on hers, and some sort of light seemed to flash in his eyes. It was as if a switch went off, and Sylar was suddenly backing away until he found the doors. Molly found it similar.

Sylar had let her go. And he had let her go before, too.

Sylar had stared at her, as if she was a stain - a smear of dirt on a palate of clean white. A symbol of sin, of darkness. Screams rang from her left, bangs behind those screams and when the burst of light barely revealed her aunt Trace with her boy-cut hair and slender arms - her right was already shattering with the sound of glass and desperation. She had shot her attention towards the window, catching the boogeyman's gaze and saw what she could never understand for all the years she spent watching the sort of world her father lived in. His dark eyes were wide, and afraid, angry and frustrated. Sylar lifted his hand, ready but slow... too slow...

And then the combined sound of a Glock exploding and a stream of electricity singing, crackling and executing - drove a part of her into retreat. She saw the two sisters through the broken doorway, arms outstreched and prepared, but it was the glimpse of dark clothes falling through the window that sent the rest of her into the cold. She had fainted before, many times as she developed her sensing.

And that was how she knew she was fainting now.

* * *

Molly caught herself just as her head was about to hit the floor. No, she stammered internally, no. This is now, not then. Don't be an idiot, Molly. Don't be a coward.

Molly pushed herself up with all her strength, aching from the strain of memories and Sylar's grips. Her stance wavered but she was determined not to fall, determined to see this through. Her mind managed to remind her where her keys and her jacket were, before she launched herself out of the door and into the hallway. She took a moment and breathed, immediately feeling that pull in her chest that now told her ' right ', setting the path for where she was determined to find him.

'_Why she wanted to find him?_' Well, that was one question that never seemed to occur to her to ask. Even as she reached the sidewalk and the busy city greeted her with sounds and movements that filled her mind with information, she didn't take the time to stop and ask '_why_?'

But Sylar was weak, wounded and in shock. Molly was the only one who knew where he was.

This time, she would save him. Damn the consequences.

* * *

_..........Hello, Molly. It's me, Dad. I just got in from DC. Ted and Monica are with me, they've got the new inhibitor with them and I'm telling you, it works. Even better than the last one, and from the looks of it, this one may go public for the masses. As soon as Nathan gives the get go and Mr. McKenna convinces the UN, I promise you we'll be running full on into offering a safe, manageable cure for all evolveds. Hang tight there, honey, I'll call again when we're in Queens. Love you. Bye........._

* * *

Sylar collapsed just as he rounded his hundredth corner. He felt his wound scream into his head, angrily demanding his body to stop moving, stop running - YOU'RE HURT, DAMMIT!!! Sylar attemped to get back to his feet, but only succeeded in stepping over himself and crashing into the dirty, grimey cement. He clawed at the dark sludge, and forced himself into a crawling position, managing to haul his body into a corner, shielded by a wall and an ancient garbage dump. In between gasping and rasping, he burrowed himself into the little sanctuary, but it just wasn't enough.

_Molly's hands, Molly's words, Molly's mercy. Everything that Molly did while he was unaware of her true name._

Already he could feel the burns bloom under his skin, like pinpoints of fire branding into him, marking him with merciless guilt that for so long followed him after that fateful day in Russia. It had taken years to get over her eyes and pleas that rang in his ears everytime he tried to sleep; and it took longer to find the guts to look at the people around him again, because from that one encounter with Molly Walker, it had suddenly struck him how any person passing him on the street could have had that potential of becoming 'gifted', and how all those people could have become his victims. And yet, despite all their differences from one another, they could all have the same childlike fears hiding underneath their facades of courage and maturity - revealing themselves only when they were looking death in the eye, the moment when he stands square in front of them, staring their sorry selves down.

But Molly, for some reason, got to him. The look in her eyes as he squeezed the air out of her throat - it made him feel dirty and filthy, realising that he had killed countless people who were no more than children, when faced with his selfish darkness.

It was sickening.

He closed his eyes and immediately saw the luminous blues that had pleaded with him that night, wishing the hardest for him to stay away. Far, fucking away. Endless blues so intently made, with the determination and steady hands of God himself - Sylar sometimes wondered what if someone came and tore her to pieces, tore this glorified frame to those eyes, into ribbons of nothing, would that someone, somewhere, imagine that he had merely freed priceless jewels from their prison? How was anyone blessed - no, cursed - with such eyes?

Sylar snarled as his mind swept over the scenes upon scenes of Molly Walker - from her days as the child of that man with frozen hands, to being that naive teenager out to get him, and finally, the young, foolish adult who had the audacity to think that she was saving him! Saving him?! More like torturing him, because those... eyes of hers... Molly Walker was now, of all people, the object of pure fear and cruelty in Sylar's mind. Her life was as destructible, as obsolete, as anyone elses, but if only he had not looked into those eyes...

_Sylar!_

Sylar started at the sound of the voice. Or was it? No... He listened, steadying his chest that had suddenly gone into shock at - what he presumed was - his name name being called. He stayed where he was, frantically burrowing farther into the corner, ready for whatever was coming.

_Sylar!_

He whipped his head towards the direction of the sound. Wait, no, nothing. How...?! Sylar shook his head frantically. He couldn't take the pressure. Without thinking, he suddenly found the ground under his feet falling away and was now overlooking the torn up, run down New York city below. Miles upon miles under him, buildings were weakly standing up, held together by the memories of their grandeur, but long since forgotten in a sense that they were no longer what people felt represented New York as a way of life. New York, as a culture all on its own. Now, half of those buildings were either homes for the sick, the homeless or the quarantined. The other half were officially homes of struggling corporations trying to keep a balanced economy despite all the odds, but unofficially - at least when Sylar thought about it - was home to the fucking, brown-nosed corporations out to compete in the rat race of creating the best and latest inhibitor drugs. Those bastards were in the business of turning people like him, into people like them.

Pathetic, quiet and stupid.

Sylar turned his thoughts away from the company of the devil under him, and focused on what had originally brought him into possessing this mindless creature flying over NYC. He watched through his many visions as the crowds bustled along the many streets, and something like guilt began to burn up inside him. All these people, he thought, damn you Molly. Damn you.

He listened, suppressing paranoia as far and as long as he could, to prove that someone was calling him 'Sylar'.

But no, no. There were a million words at once, but none of them were really saying Sylar. It just seemed as if whenever another word melted into another word, even if they were blocks apart, they seemed to spell 'Sylar'. But no, it was all in his mind. He was not being summoned. No one was calling out to him. Hah, he guffawed inwardly, this must be what paranoia truly meant. When one becomes so consumed by the idea that they're not alone, and that they're possibly being followed, so much so that it gets to the point that they actually WANT the world to be after them just so they can tell themselves they're not crazy after all... This was pure madness...

But he wasn't going mad. No. He was positive that Molly had followed him. The little brat was somewhere searching for him, ready to pronounce his sins to him and trap him in another cage of illusions, in a four-walled guilt-covered prison that would hold him captive - no matter how far he ran.

With a strangled cry, he tore himself away from the soaring eagle and felt the ground at his feet again. He needed to go; keep going. If he risked even one stop, it could mean that Molly had gained another mile on him. He needed distance. Distance. In mind and being. Cursing under his breath, he forced himself to his feet, eyeing the exits around him, trying to figure out the fastest way to put distance between him and the intuitive locater. If that was the word Mohinder would have used, had he not decided to adopt the girl.

Groaning, he looked up at the darkening sky. It looked like rain. Looking back down, he eyed the openings. Down south he could hear the Hudson flowing it's disturbingly pristine waters. Down west he could hear the faint sound of planes taking off. East rang with the soft sounds of nomality and suburbia. Or what was left of it. Suburbia. He'd go crazier there than in a madhouse. The airport? Too much security, even if he used some lame, old tax accountant disguise. The Hudson?

Well, he had tested lung adaptation on everything from smoke to nerve gas. Why not test it on the Hudson's current?

Because the Hudson was strictly Government property, that's why, idiot.

_Dammit! _He did not have time for this! Okay, decide. Right. The Hudson had a couple of homeless shelters - perfect for blending in and keeping low. And definitely not the sort of place wholesome, American girls dared to get lost in. South it was.

Sylar took a step and stopped. The sound of metal scraping the ground rang in his ears. Heavy boots. Mafia-drenched accents. Crap. Shit. Fuck. Gang members. Or more importantly, human gang members. Just around the bend at the end of the alley. Baseball bats. Chains. Close. Real close. His ears were slowly building the image of what was nearing the turn, and he did not like it.

If they were sleazy evolveds, he'd have no problem taking on them. But they were human - he could smell it - and that meant he could retaliate for a bullet in the head and it would still be him who gets persecuted. Shit. He felt the wound in his side, and cursed under his breath. He did not need this at this time. The stab wound in his side would be his downfall for sure.

But the sounds were getting louder, and he was still stuck in place wondering what to do. He could run, but it was too late - the blood on the ground would alert the bastards to his presence. They would make it their mission to find him - evolved or not.

Dammit, he should have stayed where he was... At least with Molly..-

_What the?! No!! No!!!_

_**Fuck you Karma!!**_ **_Don't you dare use that against me!_**

He was screaming in his head. See this? This, was not an '_enjoyable_' game. Karma may have dealt him deadly hands before, while he took the wonderful oppurtunity to simply go head to head - both guns blazing - against her; but this...? You know what, sometimes Karma was a bitch. A BITCH with capital letters! It didn't matter if he ran away to Russia or kissed the very ground where Angela walked on, Karma would still have his ass every step of the way. It used to be acceptable, even fun, to walk the line between doing her bidding and avoiding her blindshots - but these days, it was just too much. He was tired of arguing with the way things were and the way he wanted them to be. Especially with the last of those 'corporate remedies' leaving their personal touch on him and leaving him the broken beast that he was. He just wanted out...

The sound of metal began to ring in almost crystal clear clarity, and in a split second Sylar caught sight of the first boot moving around the wall...

He froze, deciding against his better judgement that he was better suited to stand up from himself, rather than make a run for it. He was already instinctively planted in place and in stance, hands spread out on each side, his eyes fixed on the wall at the far end before him. The first member made his full appearance, and Sylar's fingers twitched.

There were at least five of them, each with studs and spikes adorning themselves as they drank bottles of beer and swung metal baseball bats as they walked. None of them seemed to notice him, but Sylar knew then and there, at once that they were the newbie sort, the kind that knew torture of the physical alone, and would probably crack at the first mention of how their dads probably thought of them as failures in every sense of the words... Then they were like toy dolls for the crushing.

Just a few, strategic words. And then...

As the thought crossed Sylar's mind, he felt a smirk grow along his lips. The world suddenly seemed to slow down as his vision became tainted with shades of gray. Edges blurred and his senses heightened. His fingers twitched, his shoulders relaxed and his tongue suddenly began to tingle - with the taste of coppery blood...

He could already imagine tearing them apart...

The group had finally looked up in their drunken state, and found themselves face to face with a stone-cold killer. The leader of the group swayed for a moment, before smiling sillily and raising his metal bat in salute.

"Hey there! Old man. What you doin' here for? You know whose side of town this is?"

Sylar didn't move. He kept his eyes on the boy and listened to their heartbeats. Strong hearts. Powerful hearts.

Oops. Except that one in the back. He's probably got a few more years to go... Sylar's gaze turned to the smallest of the group, whose paleness was clearly not face-paint compared to the others. Sylar curled his lip in disgust. That one wouldn't be any fun...

The group continued advancing towards him, eyes still bleary and red from all the alcohol pumping through their systems. Thank god they were human. He wouldn't want to feast on a bunch of drunkard brains. They were always harder to read... But as the group moved nearer and nearer, an odd feeling began to sink into the pits of his stomach. This wasn't right. He should be going...

"I said, Old MAN!!! What are you? Deaf?! You had better have some good shit in your pockets if you're insisting on standing in Baskerville territory!"

"Yeah, we don't do charity work, you dirty mongrel. You better have a lot of money to have a lot nerve coming here, freshie."

Sylar cocked his head at the warnings, the feeling in his gut momentarily gone. He eyed the two boys who said them to him.

"Mongrel?"

The boys smirked satisfactorily, obviously assuming they had accomplised something. They raised their bats over their shoulders, chucked away their beer bottles, then took the final, confident steps forward.

Suddenly, their faces twisted and their eyes became sober with fear. They started gasping, huffing, before screaming their lungs out and turning on their heels and running terrified out of the alleyway. Their bats were forgotten as they slipped and fell onto the pavement, casting glances over their shoulder at Sylar's lone figure, all the while still screaming as they struggled to get up. One of the boys crawled into a pile of trashbags and pressed himself against the surface behind him, his face as pale as a sheet and his palms beginning to bleed from pushing against the cement.

Sylar smirked slowly, then started to walk. Towards them.

He was deliberate. Calculating. But to the boys' eyes, he could very well be gliding on his taloned feet and wide, scaly wings. His face may have been calm and cold, but to the boys', his eyes were as red as fresh blood and his jaw hung open, hungry for flesh. Oh, Sylar knew what he was doing to them. Mental illusion was one of his favourite abilities, and one of his most creative.

The leader of the boys somehow managed to get on his feet and made a rush for the exit. His friends were all petrified beyond repair, and he cast glance after glance behind him to make sure he was safe from the monster after him. But as he stumbled and ran for the corner, the most horrifying roar ripped through the alleyway and he instinctively whipped his head around to see what made it.

The next thing he knew, the monster across the alley was no longer across the alley, but heading right towards him, it's face contorted in fury and undescribable hunger. The boy screamed, raising his arms and stumbling backwards.

"Ohf!" the girl that came out of nowhere gasped as the boy fell into her, screaming at the top of his lungs. She quickly gathered her balance and stepped back, looking up to see what was so damn terrifying, before realising she was holding some stranger in her arms and dropping him like a hot coal. The boy fell to the ground and twisted like a burning worm, disoriented by his fear. The look in his eyes shocked the girl to the bone, prompting her to look back at the man down the alleyway and questioning him with her own eyes, even as his own suddenly widened in shock.

As soon as he saw Molly, it was as if the dominos fell and he felt his power slip away, the weight falling back into his gut. He retracted the illusion into himself, stepped backwards slowly like an animal in retreat, before turning around altogether to get away from her. He didn't realise until now that he was actually half naked, his arms bare and exposed in the gloomy cold. He shivered when he acknowledged the fact, and wrapped his arms around himself, much to his own chagrin. He shook his head and quickly walked away, trying to focus instead on the sound of his bare feet crushing rock and cement under themselves. Molly's eyes were trained on his back, he could tell, but he willed the girl to look away. Dammit, Molly! Stay the hell away!

He could hear her heartbeat begin to pick up as she started forward to catch up with him, but he didn't care. He could hear her feet begin to step through the puddles of grimey water, the swish of her white pyjama bottoms as a faint breeze began to blow across them, and the intake of breath as she prepared to call out his name. Her image was building fast as he walked on, but he ignored it adamantly, his strides getting swifter and swifter as he pulled away from the gravity Molly's presence was causing him. He heard soft gasps of breath escape her lips as her heart drummed in her chest, but was soon replaced by a single choked sob that stopped in her throat - a gulp - and Sylar made sure his illusion of invisibility stayed up, even as he was trembling from the exertion. He didn't know if the remote locater could sense his presence if he tricked her mind into seeing him not there, but it was worth the try.

He stood still when he reached the end of the alley, and took a breath. Molly wasn't moving. It was as if she was waiting. Sylar grimaced at her persistance. Her heart beat steadily inside her, bothering him in a way, unnerving him - if there were a word for it.

Suddenly, the same heartbeat shot to a thudding rhythm, and Sylar's head was filled with a million screeching alarms. Within a split second before he could turn in surprise, Molly's scream ripped through the air.

"A **FREAK!!??** One of them government labrats!!?? SHITTT!!!!"

Sylar spun around to see the punk boy's arm locked around Molly's neck, a switchblade pointed at her jugular. Molly was gasping, struggling even as her face grew twice as pale, her blue eyes brimming with tears. She tried to dislodge the boy's hold, but the punk was too strong. Sylar watched from the distance, a sudden frantic state filling his body, shooting adrenaline up his spine. His eyes immediately latched onto the blade in the boy's hand. The boy continued to glare all around him, and then back at Molly.

"Who was that? Was that SON OF A BITCH your boyfriend?!! Answer ME!!!" Molly screamed again as the boy tightened his hold. Her fingers clawed at his forearm. "You'll be sorry... You'll be sorry your FREAK-ASS boyfriend did all of this, you abomination. You freak-fucker!!"

Molly scratched at the arm, tears running down her cheeks. "No, please... I-I don't know him... I don't!!! Please don't hurt me..."

"Shut **UP!!!**"

Sylar's feet began to move forward at their own accord, a part of him giving orders to make sure this punk regretted the day he was ever born. He was almost there, his fingers twitching with invisible energy. Molly continued to plead and cry in the hold, but the boy wasn't affected. His eyes roamed all over the place, trying to find a trace of the disappeared assailant, something Sylar found both pitiful and amusing at the same time. He stepped forward slowly, until his foot caught a discarded bat. He half-tripped and sent the bat rolling forward.

The boy tensed at the interruption, eyes shooting forward, pulling Molly closer towards himself. "Wha-?! WHO WAS THAT!!?? WHO'S THERE??!!"

Molly's eyes screwed shut and she whimpered as the question worked its effect on her. Sylar noticed it immediately - it was the same as when she located him in her apartment earlier. Her hands cringed and locked into trembling fists, her eyes struggling with what Sylar could only suspect to be a migraine. The change in demeanour was subtle for a while, but her captor soon noticed it. The boy hissed and released his hold on her neck, only to grab her hair in his fist.

**"I'll KILL HER!!!"** he called out, threatening the invisible assailant, "SHOW YOURSELF!!!" Molly gasped as the knife was once more pressed against her throat, only this time the sharp edge slid against her skin, breaking in ever so slightly, glimmering in the gloomy light. Her entire body went still at the familiar sensation, her chest struggling to keep from heaving with sobs, to minimise her movements. Her eyes rose to look pleadingly forward, almost piercing the space between to reach Sylar's position.

Sylar stopped at that moment, his mind suddenly really considering the options. He cocked his head to the side as he studied the scene before him. What was he doing? Trying to help her? Why? How the hell did he go from trying to avoid this girl, to wanting to save her life? He had no reason to, right?

He took a breath and looked deeper into Molly's glassy eyes. A part of him seemed to shudder at the fear it was reflecting. Something about her... About her gaze... About her everything... Something about her was just so damn freaky that it was digging into the back of his mind - literally CHALLENGING a response out of him!! He felt compelled to do something!! Anything, about them. To just...

_-Stop it._

The energy in his fingers fizzled out with a lazy hiss.

_-Stop everything._

He took a step back and reinforced the illusion around him.

_-Everyone._

_-The world._

_-Himself._

_-Just stop._

He let out the breath he didn't even know he was holding. Burying his face in his palms, he dug his fingers into his skull, wishing he could dig his eyes out. This was a joke!!! What the hell had Molly done to him???

_-Time. Somehow, somewhere, a clock stopped ticking - right beside where another one was just coming to life._

He whispered softly in the back of his mind.

_'Sorry.'_

He had nothing to gain.

And he had nothing to lose.

He had no reason to do this... Any of this.

He had nothing to gain...?

Molly's eyes were still stuck on the empty space before her, as if she knew something - or rather, someone - was there. Sylar finally allowed his gaze to properly meet hers, and it seemed even for the brieftest moment, it was enough. She instantly locked onto his line of sight and he knew that she had pinpointed his location. So her ability could still locate under illusions... he managed to muse. Molly blinked through her tears, a few fresh drops falling from her lashes, then in another brief moment, something inside those eyes changed. She swallowed, and closed them completely. A voice, hers, whispered in the depths of Sylar's mind..

_'Go...'_

Sylar was taken aback, but his conscience - didn't know he still had one - told him not to be alarmed. This wasn't a trick.

She knew how the system worked. One attack, and he'd be back on the list. Back on the hunted roster. One human death, and he'd have no chance to even pretend to have a normal life. One move, and his entire existence would be known again to all.

_'Go...'_ But why the hell was she trying to save HIM? What was she playing at?

Sylar frowned, but still, Molly's eyes - when they opened again - were telling him to save himself. There was a soft tug on his right shoulder, and for some reason, Sylar knew that the shelters were the best bet. He noticed how Molly whimpered as she forced her fingers to stay locked in a fist, even as her head seemed to motion towards her left. Sylar's frown deepened.

The boy on the other hand, growled and tugged Molly until her neck snapped backwards and craned painfully, the entirety of her pale throat exposed. Molly cried as the knife slit deeper along her skin. "You asked for it..." the boy spat through his teeth.

And with that the blade left Molly's neck, and in a blink of an eye, plunged into Molly's torso, choking a scream out of her, and a protest from Sylar's startled position. His eyes widened and his hand automatically shot out at the boy, shattering his illusion in the process, his image returning without a second thought. The boy gasped as he was thrown backwards and into the far end of the alley, so hard, the sound echoed off the walls. Molly slumped to her knees, her face twisting in shock, before she dropped limply to the ground. Red started to ooze out from under her, mingling with the grimey puddles.

Sylar was rooted in place, speechless for a good few minutes as the adrenaline fizzled out of his entire body. Finally, when the equations in his head stopped running and the voices in his mind told him that yes, what just happened - HAD happened, he stepped forward one foot at a time; and then found himself running to Molly's side.

He turned her body over and realised that the fall had driven the knife further into her, possibly rupturing an organ. Despite feeling the effects of her presence burning at his skin, his instincts still told him to lift her up onto his knee and place his hand over the bleeding wound. Slowly, with a sickening, sucking-like sound, the blade moved tentatively, then abruptly, and shot out of her and into his open hand. Molly groaned weakly in gurgles of blood as Sylar wrapped his fingers around the bloody hilt, then pulled the rest of the weapon out of her. Sylar took a look at the object for a moment, noting the length of it, then flung it away as hard as he could, lifting her head to look into her eyes.

As the cerulean blues opened to meet him, a sense of dread washed over him as he saw a flash of death dangling in their depths. Wrapping one arm around her shoulders, he closed his eyes and felt himself attach to another bird, flying high above the city. The expanse of New York was revealed to below, and the moment he saw the shelters situated less than four buildings away from them, he tore away from the animal, and returned to the girl in his arms.

It had to have been less than a minute, but a part of him went cold when he realised that Molly wasn't breathing, wasn't moving. Sylar felt for a pulse with his free hand, panic rising when he failed to find one.

_'Go...'_

Sylar's hand pulled back, as if Molly's words burned him. _'What?'_

Molly's voice was weak, even in his mind. _'Go... It's not safe here...'_

Sylar's ears perked up as he heard another of the punks stirring slightly. Out of the corner of his sight, he noted the gangly limbs beginning to move. His eyes narrowed at Molly's lifeless face. _'You're bleeding, Walker... Am I supposed to leave you...?'_

No answer. The panic rose again.

_'Molly? Molly??!'_ Sylar slapped her face, watched it loll to the side like a broken doll, then reached down and pressed against her wound. His fingers settled against fluid and stickiness and he knew at once that he didn't need to look down to know that she was bleeding through next week down there. Her words echoed in his mind. He closed his eyes and curled his lip in annoyance.

_'Fuck you...'_

Summoning whatever strength he had in himself, Sylar rose up with Molly in his arms. He looked around, listening for dangers in the way between them and the shelters, even as he pushed himself forwards toward the only 'safe' place at the moment. He paused midstep when he found a group of children playing jumping jacks just before the next building, and was further discouraged when he heard an entire group of teens gathering near the diner opposite the same building, ready to start a fight with another group of teens coming down the street directly from the shelters. Damnit. Too much exposure, he realised. Too much risk.

His mind raced with exit strategies, only to be interrupted by the tell-tale sound of someone's heartbeat rising to the point of alarm. The punk was awake. His eyes shone with panic as he looked down at Molly. There was one way... He could...-

Sylar shook his head, looking away from Molly, and listening again to the world. There was one other escape route, but he wasn't sure if Molly would survive it...

Somewhere in the distance, a police siren broke through the silence, sending Sylar's panic into overdrive. He looked back down at Molly, realising just how pale her skin was, and feeling the dread settle in himself as he realised the girl could might as well be dead already.

Relenting with a sigh, Sylar gritted his teeth and held Molly closer to him.

In a flash of light, the blue wormhole engulfed them both, pulling and tearing at their skin, the turbulence pushing away and against their flesh like tidal waves, the sound of bones breaking and crushing inside them ringing in the air. Sylar concentrated with all he had, willing everything to be alright. It was like being surrounded by a vacuum, being sucked into a vacuum, as the portal folded their bodies in every direction possible, the only thing keeping them intact and alive being Sylar's experience and knowledge in handling the wormhole's effects. Sylar held Molly tight, his hands channeling his energy into her skin, his head bowed over hers to keep her eyes shielded and her head curled into him.

The image of the shelters were the anchor that steered the journey, and Sylar kept the white-washed buildings with their corridors of runaways, hobos and hidden specials that littered the area like a disease, inside his mind to navigate his way through the pain. He had only been to the place once, back when the government had done their worst on him, but with or without that Texas girl's power, he knew it was one of those places he would remember for life. So when the air finally broke and his feet touched wood instead of worn marble, he stumbled in surprise, landing in a roll, his hold on Molly instinctively shielding her from the impact. The portal disappeared into thin air and wherever they ended up was instantaneously shrouded in darkness. Sylar's nose picked up the scent of dusty wood, termites and moths, as well as rubble and long forgotten cemented walls.

Silence surrounded them, only broken by Sylar's dust-induced cough before he looked up and assessing the situation. This was definitely no part of the shelters that he knew of. In fact, if he was to guess, it was the abandoned building next to the shelters, just across the street, being the only one he knew of in the entire area that was built with hardwood floors and arching windows that faced the former cathedral - judging of course by the dark, almost black-stained cross that seemed to peek through the boarded windows.

Yes, he thought grimly as he laid Molly down and pressed against her wound, the shelters were built around what used to be the Church of Our Lady of Charity, quite the monument back when it was still in operation. But, he guessed, freedom wasn't the only thing the world threw into the dumpster once specials were ratted out. Faith was one of them, even if the majority of volunteers working the graffitied walls claimed it was not so. Still, it remained that the only congregation in station there these days were either sick, homeless or hunted - but all the same, selfish in their own business.

That was why he and Molly would've been safe there.

But instead, they were here. And it didn't take a genius to figure out that this was bad. How did they get there anyway? His navigation had never failed him before. But now, of all times, right when he had a dying girl in his care - it had to. Shit, he cursed in his mind, if I ever get my hands around destiny's throat, there was a whole bunch of hell bound to break loose.

Clearing his head, Sylar looked down at Molly, her pale face still unconscious and cold. The portal didn't kill her, but it did cause some damage. All along her temple, her cheeks and her exposed chest, her veins were swollen and red, a sign that her body was fighting off an attack. Or simply in shock. All the same, that meant that Molly's blood pressure was pumping faster than her weakened body could handle, and that spelt trouble for the open wound on her ribcage.

Sylar looked around. The place was abandoned, completely. There weren't even any half-ass furniture pieces. He had to get help, but Molly was much too drained to join him this time. How long until...?

No. He needed to do something about this. Reaching under her and lifting so he could remove her coat, he gently laid her back down once the article of clothing was freed. Folding it into a crude square, he lifted Molly's shirt and placed it over her still bleeding wound.

Then, with a soft groan of pain, he placed a psychic paperweight onto the top of the coat, effectively holding it in place. Hopefully for long enough. Pulling back and getting to his feet, he gasped as his own wound began to trickle down himself as well. He reached up and forced the skin together, squeezing his eyes shut as he seared the opening with the tip of his fingers. It wasn't healing as much as it was sealing, but it hurt like hell, and it was the best he could do. And to be frank, it was a wonder that it even worked. His body had been affected heavily by the last government issued 'cure', with his healing ability bearing the brunt of it. Burning his skin so that they stayed stuck was nothing more than a trick - the insides of the wound were still open after all - but it was the best he could do. It was skin deep and would probably last for about an hour, until the tissue ruptures again, and things would probably end up worse than ever, but it was a risk he would have to take.

Taking one last look at Molly, Sylar willed another illusion over himself, before stepping forward and out of the abandoned doors.

* * *

"Molly! It's dad! You okay? Mr. Vyakevsky said you didn't call in sick at the diner."

Matt stood in the hallway and waited. But there was no answer.

"Molly?" He knocked again, listening hard for his daughter's thoughts beyond the door. But everything was as silent as a grave. Frowning, Matt fished out his phone and dialed Molly's cellphone as he turned and walked away from the door. He held the phone up to his ear, waiting for his daughter to answer. This really wasn't like her to not answer his calls.

The sound of an old classic rock song from the 80's wafted through the walls, stilling his footsteps. Matt's jaw dropped, worse case scenarios suddenly filling his mind as he spun on his heel and stared at the apartment door. That was Molly's ringtone. Her phone was still in the apartment.

Matt snapped his phone shut, a hand reaching up and attempting to still his breath, then abruptly opened the phone again and dialing another number. This wasn't like his daughter at all. Something had to be wrong. Molly...

The other end of the line began to ring. Molly never left her phone in her apartment, Matt ran through his head. Or anywhere where she wasn't. She had learned well. _Always with you. Phones are communication. If you can't communicate - you can't call for help._ And Molly may have been trained to defend herself during stakeouts and all, but she sure as hell wasn't trained to be openly offensive. It was mostly due to the fact that she wasn't an offensive special to begin with. Therefore, although her abilities made her perfect for long distance involvement, it was practically pointless for her to be able to take someone's eye out on a daily basis.

But sometimes, like right now, Matt wished she had signed up for at least one self-defense session with the Company. Violence was just something that never sat well with his daughter, but damnit, it was necessary to have some knowledge of it sometimes, you know! Especially with someone like Molly, whose kindness was at most times a blessing, but when faced with the dangers of the world - a hindrance.

Matt stopped when the other end of the line was picked up by its owner. Mohinder spoke sleepily through the static. "Hello?"

"Has Molly called you?"

The sound of a light switch flicked on echoed in the background. "What? Matt?! No, is something wrong?" There was motion in that voice, like someone making the move to sit up.

"I-I don't know. I just...-I came back from Washington, and I'd tried calling her, b-but there was no answer..." Matt didn't even realise he was shaking until his last word faltered. He cupped his mouth and breathed into his sweating palm. Images suddenly began filling up his head, random bodies and cases from the last fifteen years of his NSA career suddenly haunting him all at once. His daughter.... was missing...

"Maybe she's at the diner." Mohinder's own worry began to rise in his voice. "Or maybe she's sick, and resting. At home." Matt could tell that Mohinder was trying to sound casual despite almost freaking out. Matt shook his head frantically.

"No! I checked at the diner - she's not there. And I'm at her apartment, b-but... - I can't hear anything, Mohinder. It's as quiet as a grave in there!"

"Matt, you're over-reacting...-"

"Mohinder! Her phone is inside her apartment!" He could tell, even from halfway around the world, that Mohinder's breath just hitched. "We...! She knows the rules - Molly would never leave her phone behind...!"

The line was silent, save for Mohinder's breath heaving in thought at the piece of information. Matt looked up and realised that he had paced all the way out of the apartment complex, and was now standing on the street, traffic whizzing past and the sunlight reflecting off odd surfaces everywhere. He took a look around - listening - but nothing gave anything. Through the static, Mohinder spoke, this time with more awareness than before.

"I'm be on the next flight out. I'll call Noah, maybe he and Elle can wrangle something up. Don't worry, Matt."

Matt rubbed his face with his free hand to rid himself of the worrisome tears he had involuntarily shed. Great, now the guy would have to brave airport security to get here and help find their daughter. This is definitely serious.

Matt screwed his eyes shut. "No, no. Maybe I am over-reacting." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm sorry to worry you like that. I'll just... You're right. Maybe she's at the library or something. I'll check."

Mohinder shifted at the other end of the line.

"It's Molly, Matt. And it's you. If you say that she's missing, then nothing could be more true. You know our daughter better than anyone."

Matt started, the memory of how his last meeting with Molly had gone pushing to the forefront. Mohinder beat him to it. "Don't even go there. Okay, Molly did not do anything stupid just to spite you. She wouldn't do that - she loves you."

Matt got into his car and rested his head against the steering wheel, his chest still pounding with baseless fear. "Maybe we don't need to call Noah."

"Matt, it's Molly. Next to the president himself, she's the one person the entire secret service should have been deployed to find by now." Humour was nowhere in those lines.

Matt nodded, alone in his car as he tuned out the fluttering voices in the air. Even halfway around the world, he could almost feel Mohinder assuring him with a pat on his back. Molly wouldn't... She never really did go through the teenage-rebellion stage of her life; it was entirely possible that she was finding time for that now, but...

Had it been anyone else, Matt would have argued that all signs pointed to just that. But, this was Mohinder. And while the man was stupid enough to risk airport security to get on a plane even though he was as 'WANTED' as they got - the man was right. And this was someone who understood, both as a parent and as an agent.

"Okay." He finally spoke. "Call me when you get a hold of Noah, and when you get here."

Matt could picture Mohinder nodding. "I will. Take care."

Matt closed his eyes, opening them slowly and starting up the engine. "You too. Love you."

He snapped the phone shut, and made his way uptown towards Company headquarters.

* * *

(A/N: I wrote slash!!! I wrote SLASH!!! I've been initiated!! Whoohoo!!! Heh, I literally didn't want to go to bed after I put that last part down in writing. I feel like Eliot from Scrubs getting arrested for 'prostitution'. Oh well, I guess this means I'll need to make some adjustments to my warnings. Although the slash will hardly play a part in the overall storyline.

But then again, seriously, in my defense, how could Matt/Mohinder NOT happen? I'm putting it down to fate and I'm keeping it there. Hah!)


End file.
